


GoT One-Shots

by LittlefingersMustache



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boys in Skirts, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Problematic Rickon, Sailor Moon AU, Smut, Songs, WWI AU, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlefingersMustache/pseuds/LittlefingersMustache
Summary: random one-shots of ships I enjoy





	1. Worry

If it had been hours or only minutes, Tommen didn’t know. All he knew now is that his family didn’t want him, none of them, not one of them. He rubbed his eye, which was purplish-blue from a past injury. He stood on the curb and took out his phone, his hand shaking, entering his password and going to his contacts. He hit the name he wanted and raised the phone to his ear, shaking so much he almost dropped it. He sank to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest. 

The phone rang three times, until there was a beep and a very groggy “What?”

“Rickon, I told her.”

There was a rustling and a thump, as if Rickon was sitting up. “What? What’d you do?” He asked, most of the grogginess gone from his voice. Tommen sniffed roughly. “I-I thought if I told my mum about me and you I wouldn’t have to act all secretive around her, b-but...” He paused, and began to cry, finally breaking down. “B-But Joff told her what happened and she just...lost it. Ricky, I don’t know what do to.” Tommen began to descend into hysterics. 

More unintelligible sounds from Rickon’s line. “Well, first of all, Joffrey can go suck a ostrich’s dick.” He said. “I’m coming to get you. Right now. Where are you?” There was a jangle of keys and Rickon yelling distantly, “Mum, I’m leaving!”

“I’m outside,” Tommen said shakily through his thick sobs. “Outside your house.” Tommen didn’t feel like he was worth looking around nervously for. 

Rickon’s line was silent, but he could distantly hear something heavy being dropped, and then the windy-sound of the phone being dropped. Tommen took the phone away from his ear, staring at it quizzically. 

And then Rickon crashed into him all at once, and Tommen immediately grabbed onto him like a lifesaver. He was lost in the brown curls, Rickon’s cinnamony-furry cabin scent filling Tommen’s nose. 

Slowly looking up, Tommen sniffed hard. He didn't know how to feel anymore or what to feel in that matter. "I-I thought things were gonna be okay.. I-I really did." He stuttered lightly as he looked up at the small boy in front of him. Slowly he brought his hand up close to Rickon’s face as he moved some of the curls out of his face as he lifted his sight to him. "She doesn't want me...” He explained lightly as a sad smile came across his face as he sighed. Rickon hugged him closer, pressing his nose to Tommen’s neck. “Your mom can go to hell,” he said. “If she doesn’t want you, I do. You’re living with me now.” Even though he seemed to have noodle arms, Rickon slid his arms under Tommen’s back and under his knees and lifted him up, carrying him back towards the house.

Looking at Rickon, Tommen gave a soft smile. The blonde knew that being around him was something great like something he never felt before. "B-But your parents..." He lightly spoke looking down. He was glad he had someone this special to keep with him. Silently Tommen placed his head on the boy’s shoulder; he of course wasn't sure what he was to do but all he could think of was crying his heart out. “They don’t need to know,” Rickon said, grabbing his phone from the grass and pushing the door open with his back, huffing under Tommen’s weight. He tiptoed as silently as he could down the hallway, but it wasn’t long until Catelyn called from the living room, “Rickon, what are you carrying?” Rickon froze, and Tommen tensed. “Shaggydog got a thorn in his paw,” Rickon called, before hurrying into his room and slamming the door. He set Tommen down onto his bed and sat next to him.

Crossing his legs slowly, Tommen placed his hands on his knees. Breathing in hard, he rubbed his nose lightly as he turned to face Rickon. He sighed deeply. "I-I don't know anymore, Rickon." The blonde teen felt better being around Rickon since everything that happened around him. "Ricky?" He spoke softly as continued "D-do you think I'm a bad person?" He asked rubbing his eyes now from crying before. “Baby, why would you think you’re a terrible person?” Rickon said, leaning his back against the wall and pulling Tommen into his lap, rhythmically stroking his hair. “I love you, Tommen. Probably more than your family ever will.“

"I just feel like...you know..." He paused lightly as he placed his hand in Rickon’s slowly. Tommen felt safe with him, like nothing was wrong, like everything was great; the way it was supposed to be. Turning to face Rickon he placed his hands against the smaller boy’s cheeks. Tommen, looking into his eyes, smiled lightly. "You're too good for me, Rickon...”

Rickon blushed and smiled, touching his nose to Tommen’s. “I love you, golden boy,” he said, placing a kiss on Tommen’s nose, and then took Tommen’s hands in his own and began spreading kisses all across the tops of his cheeks.

Tommen let out a loud giggle feeling his cheeks get all warm and red. "R-Ricky." He giggled, looking at him and feeling himself get all fuzzy inside as he felt Rickon kiss on his nose. "Oh, wolf boy. If it could be like this everyday I would be the happiest person ever." He spoke softly, moving the hair behind the other’s ear slowly.

Rickon smiled and snuggled the blonde closer, burying his face in his neck. “Why are you taller than me?” He asked, looking up at him. “It’s not fair. I’m always shorter than everyone.” "Being short isn't always that bad." He giggled lightly as he put his hands on Rickon's shoulders and leaned closer. Rickon’s cheeks turned dark red and he looked up at Tommen innocently with his wide, gray-blue eyes. He snaked his fingers around Tommen’s neck and twirled some baby curls from the base of the blonde’s neck around his fingers. “I love you more,” He murmured, fluttering his eyelashes. 

Realizing what had happened and how wrong he was with his actions quickly made the blonde back up and look down as his nose continued to slowly bleed onto his lap. "I'm very sorry.. It's just..." He shook his head as he stopped talking. Tommen didn't know what attention felt or looked like, but what he had done seemed to make him seem very desperate, which of course wasn't what he was. Tommen knew his head wasn't in the right place since his family had made great sure it was broke. But not all of his family wanted him hurt, his sister was rather nice. Tommen was will aware of how stupid he must have seem to Rickon at this moment in time which only made the way he viewed himself worse but he made sure not to tell Rickon about his self pity since he knew doing so would led him to break down. Tommen was, of course, a pure person who wouldn't put anyone in harm. "I love you. Yes, very much.. It's just my mind is all confused and lost.. I know loving you is the right thing, but I just have a funny feeling when I do things like so... Like, yes, I wanted to hold you.." He breathed in roughly. "It's just a mess." He added slowly rubbing his nose getting blood all over the bottom of his nose and on the side of his hand.

“You just do whatever you want that makes you happy, golden boy,” Rickon said, sitting up and taking Tommen’s bloody hand away from his nose and holding it tightly. He reached over to his bedside table and got a few tissues, and then handed them to Tommen. “All I want to see is you happy. What do you want?” Rickon asked, taking Tommen’s other hand and looking at him pleadingly.

Cleaning off his nose and smiling sadly, Tommen of course did know what he wanted and he'd for sure get it. "I do know what I want but it's hard to get it." He spoke warmly looking over at him as he giggled lightly as he played with the bottom of his top. "You, Ricky. That's what I want." Tommen loved Rickon with all his heart and nothing would change any of that. Rickon smiled, reaching out and dragging Tommen over to him. “You think I’m hard to get?” He asked, nuzzling his cheek with his nose. “I’ve been yours since the day we met, Tommen. I’ll always be yours.” Rickon pulled away to look Tommen in the eye. “But will you be mine?” He asked, putting one hand on the back of the blonde’s neck.

"Yes, you have always been hard to get. Even now." He nodded, placing his head on the smaller Stark's shoulder as he put his arms around his waist and he kissed his shoulder with a light giggle. "Oh, Ricky."

Rickon giggled and buried his face in Tommen’s blonde hair. He put his chin on the top of Tommen’s head and ran his blonde curls through his fingers. “Are you feeling better now?” He asked, looking down at him. Giving a small nod, Tommen felt much better, especially when he was held in someone's arms like so. "Yeah...but don't let go." The blonde whispered looking up at him slowly and softly. Most people thought it was odd that even though Tommen was older he didn't act or look so because the way he acted with Rickon made him seem younger and more child like then if he was alone. "Ricky, never let go." He added placing a kiss lightly on his cheek as he let out a little yawn.

Rickon smiled warmly and held Tommen tighter, letting himself fall back onto his bed with Tommen on top of him. “You look tired,” he pointed out. “You can borrow some of my pajamas if you’d like.” "It's okay.." Tommen normally only wore the clothes from that same day to bed or his boxers but he wasn't gonna risk it in his boxers, at least not in front of Rickon yet. Tommen knew that him and curly haired boy had only been together for three months, which he thought was way to soon to be basically half naked in someone's bed, especially at their age.

Rickon smiled and nodded, pulling the blanket over Tommen, before shimmying out of the bed. “I’ll go get dressed and be right back,” he said, standing up and going into his closet, before coming back out in loose pajamas. He went back to Tommen and snuggled into the bed next to him. 

Rubbing his eyes, Tommen knew he was to emotionally tired to care that he had the faint smell of blood on him, and that his eyes had felt dry from all the crying and complaining he had done this night. He worried if he was being a huge bug to someone else with how bad his mood swings had gotten today. "Normally I'm not like that.." He spoke softly looking over at the curly Stark. 

“Shh,” Rickon whispered, curling his arms around Tommen’s waist and tugging him closer. He stroked Tommen’s hair and opened his eyes to look down at him. “Please, Love, you don’t need to worry. You’re safe with me, and that’s all that matters.” "Worrying is the only way I know things, Ricky." He spoke softly as he kissed the smaller boy's face once more. "I will always worry when it comes to you, always." He added moving hair out of the Stark's face, smiling warmly.

Rickon stared deep into Tommen’s eyes. “I don’t want you to worry about me,” He said, putting his hand on top of Tommen’s. “I think I should be worrying more about you. How you feel is important, too, Tom.” He snuggled Tommen closer. “I worry about you a lot too.” Tommen looked back at the boy and gave a small nod. "Yeah.. I suppose we both worry about each other." He smiled moving his hair out of his face slowly. Tommen always cared for Rickon, but today it was different, like he had just witnessed the curly haired child get hurt or something of that kind. 

Rickon nodded, smiling, and yawned, snuggling down into his pillow. “Yeah, I guess so,” he mumbled, his eyes drifting shut, and few moments later he was asleep in Tommen’s warm arms. 

That night, Tommen didn't sleep that much at all since he needed to make sure that Rickon was very safe, happy, and healthy. "I love you very much, Ricky." He whispered lightly as he rubbed the other boy's head slowly. Rickon slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling evenly. He shifted slightly and turned closer to Tommen, murmuring something inaudible in his sleep.

Looking down at the boy, he played with his hair lightly as he kissed his head. "Oh dear wolf boy. Don't worry." Tommen knew loved every part of Rickon with all his heart, and would do anything for him.


	2. zoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which our three unlikely heroes rescue an elephant from a zoo and must sneak back in during an air raid to get medicine. Based off of the movie Zoo.

Rickon and Shireen pounded down the streets of Belfast, their breaths stirring the cold air. Alarms blared wherever they went, and they constantly ducked from wall to wall to avoid the Valyrian searchlights above. They had to get back to the air raid shelter, or else they might die from a bomb or get gassed first. 

But Rickon held the only thing he needed in his hands, wrapped in a square of burlap. The medicine they needed to help Buster get better. The baby elephant had been sad and dysfunctional for weeks, and Shireen had figured out that he had some soy of sickness that he had gotten from malnourishment at his previous location. 

The pair stopped at a crossroads. Rickon recognized it as the intersection, where if you took a left it would go to the air raid shelter, and if you took a right it led over to Shireen’s neighborhood. Rickon looked over at Shireen. 

As the faint light of the searchlights in the distance, she looked ghostly. Her long brown hair was pulled into pigtails with dark blue ribbons, and the lights outlined her face, making her button nose and long eyelashes practically glow. Her scar looked silvery in the light, as if someone had been mining and revealed a vein of silver that went from her forehead to her neck. She turned her head, honing in that dark brown gaze on Rickon’s face. 

“I should go make sure my father is okay.” She said, twirling a bit on her tiptoes. Her hair swished back and forth, back and forth. She smiled, her plump cheeks gathering more flesh. Another explosion shook the ground somewhere far away, but neither of them budged. Shireen took a step closer to Rickon, putting one hand on top of Buster’s medicine. “I’ll see you at school. If I can’t come by tomorrow, keep those initials bright, won’t you?” With a cheeky grin, Shireen turned and ran down the alleyway, disappearing in a whirl of clotheslines. 

Rickon stood there for a while, contemplating going with her to make sure she got to her house alright. He decided against it and turned, running away from Shireen and towards his family. 

When he returned to the air raid shelter, only Arya seemed to notice he had been gone. “Where were you, you knucklehead?” She hissed, slapping Rickon on the back of his head. Rickon couldn’t help but smile. “Nothing. I went out to see the planes.” He replied, hiding the burlap behind his thigh. 

-

On Monday, Rickon practically ran to school, wanting to tell Shireen and Tommen all about how Buster’s medicine had worked. He rushed into the building, looking around for Shireen, but finding her nowhere. Instead, he saw Tommen anxiously pacing back and forth, his brother Joffrey beside him. Not even caring about Joffrey, Rickon trudged over. 

“Have you seen Shireen at all?” Rickon said in a low voice. Tommen blinked, shaking his head. “N-No. I thought she was coming with you.”

“Aw, crying about your little girlfriend again, Stark?” Joffrey mocked, but quickly fell silent when the teacher walked over. “Rickon, May I speak with you for a moment?”

-

Tommen took his seat heavily as the teacher led Rickon into a back room, cracking the door open enough so that h could see inside. He couldn’t hear anything, but he saw the teacher put her hand on Rickon’s shoulder and say something. Tommen’s gaze traveled to Rickon’s face. 

Hellzone. 

Rickon’s face went from passive to hellish. His eyebrows curved and his stormy eyes widened in horror. Tommen saw the curly haired boy curl in his lips and then open his mouth, a tic the boy had whenever he got nervous or scared or angry. The teacher said something else, and patted Rickon’s shoulder. Rickon turned slowly and walked heavily back to his seat, his head bowed as if he had been defeated. He sat down with a loud thump, staring down at the desk. 

The teacher continued with morning prayer to the Seven. “We thank the Seven Gods for protecting all of us in the air raids last night.” The teacher said. Tommen noticed that her voice was strained. 

“We pray for all the men, women, and children who died last night in the bombings.”

Tommen turned silently to look back at Rickon as the teacher said something about troops. Rickon was staring right back at him with dull, dead eyes. Tears striped his face like a zebra’s pelt. 

Tommen turned back to the teacher, an uncomfortable lump rising in his throat. He slowly averted his gaze to stare at Shireen’s empty desk as the teacher spoke a final prayer. 

“And we pray for the soul of our little friend, Shireen Baratheon, who died last night in the bombings. She was only a few yards from home.” The teacher stopped, getting choked up. “We pray that her soul he guided safely along to the joyous afterlife.”

Tommen let the tears fall.


	3. what death feels like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon reminisces on his past while facing certain death.

“Run to your brother.”

 

Rickon glanced back at Ramsay quizzically. Was this another one of his sick games? The Bolton bastard was smiling at him pleasantly, but it unsettled Rickon.

 

“Go,” Ramsay said, lightly pushing Rickon forward. The youngest Stark stumbled, his unsteady legs barely supporting him. Weeks of malnourishment had taken its tool on his physical stature. He glanced back at Ramsay. The raven-haired bastard raised his eyebrows. “You have to run, you know.” He said knowingly. “Those are the rules.”

 

Rickon stumbled again, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t sure if he should take the Bolton’s advice and start running, or defy him and walk. He was making up his mind to just sit down and stare at Ramsay defiantly when the bastard picked up his bow and arrows from the arms of a nearby soldier.

 

Rickon ran.

 

His first steps were unsteady and wobbly, but he finally found a certain pace that he repeated over and over in his head. He willed himself to run faster. He saw a black horse thundering toward him on the other side of the plain. He had to get to Jon before Ramsay put an arrow through his back.

 

Squinting away his terrified tears, Rickon thought of things to make him run faster. He thought of his father, Ned Stark. He had looked up to his father so much when he was younger. He had always been out in the courtyard with Jon and Robb, because he had known Ned would be there too, watching his eldest sons. He had wanted to prove himself worthy of being Ned’s son so often.

 

He ran for his mother, Catelyn. Rickon had adored his mother. He had looked up to her so much, and she had always made time for him. She taught him how to ride a pony and had helped him take care of Shaggydog when he was younger. Whenever Rickon had nightmares, he made his way through the drafty corridors of Winterfell to find her. She would bring him back to his room and sing quiet lullabies until he slept again.

 

A projectile whizzed past Rickon’s ear, and he ducked, pumping his legs faster. He ran for Robb, his eldest trueborn brother. He had admired Robb so much and his kind brother had always made time to play with him. They had played knights and dragons, and Robb had taught him how to swing a sword. When Rickon had a tantrum or angry fit and ran off into the forests surrounding Winterfell, Robb had been the one to go out and find him. When Rickon had learned that he and Catelyn had been slain at the Red Wedding by the Freys and the Boltons, he had attacked Ramsay with tooth and nail.

 

His breath was coming in ragged puffs now. He saw Jon not that far off, riding full tilt across the plain. Rickon ran for Sansa, his favorite older sister. She would play princesses with him and let him wear the dresses that she had long grown out of but hadn’t thrown out. He had done her hair and gone out flower-picking with her. He had loved his sister. When she had left for King’s Landing, Rickon had kicked and screamed against Catelyn, and Shaggydog had been in hysterics, growling and barking and howling along with Rickon’s laments. Rickon didn’t know if his beloved older sister was alive or dead.

 

Another arrow flew past Rickon. His throat was dry and burning. He tried not to think about Arya. Arya had always been terrible to Rickon in Winterfell, pushing him and teasing him. Nymeria and Shaggydog had gotten in countless fights because of their sibling rivalry. When it had been announced that she would accompany Sansa to the capital, Rickon had slumped against his mother, weak with relief. Now he felt guilty for that petty relief. Over the years he spent away from Winterfell, he had realized how much family mattered, and he regretted his little rivalry with his sister.

 

But finally, finally, he ran for Bran. Always his favorite brother, he had practically worshipped the ground Bran stepped (or was carried?) on. Rickon guessed it was because they were so close in age that it was only fitting that Rickon admired him the most. When they set out on their journey along with the direwolves, Hodor, and Osha, he had stuck closer to Bran than anyone else in the group. When the Reed siblings had joined them, Rickon had liked hanging out with Meera when she wasn’t fussing over her brother. Rickon was dazzled by Bran’s power to see the future and was fascinated by it, but he never saw it beyond its beginning stages. He and Osha had left shortly after he had discovered some of the abilities that came with his powers.

 

Jon was so close now. Rickon could hear the hoofbeats of the horse in the ground, in his ears, in the air. The blood roared in his ears, and Rickon clenched his teeth, pushing himself toward the final few meters. He could see Jon now, clearly; he was leaning over to Rickon’s side, his arm outstretched and ready to scoop Rickon up as soon as he was close enough. His expression was unreadable. It was a mixture of concentration, stress, and anger all in one pair of eyes. Rickon saw the anger and some of the concentration fade away from his face as Rickon drew closer. His face relaxed. Rickon stumbled and kept running, but he could tell his pace was slowing. He was at the limit of his short stamina rate. He was so close to Jon. He was there. He could imagine coming back to his siblings. If Sansa was alive, she would be elated to see Rickon home. Arya really wouldn’t care. Bran wasn’t coming back from beyond the Wall anytime soon. Freedom was so close, Rickon could taste it.

 

Rickon relaxed. There was no way Ramsay’s arrows could reach him here. He slowed a bit. A smile spread wide across Rickon’s face. He could imagine his immediate future. It was plain and simple on his mind: sitting by a nice fire, warm and stuffed with food, surrounded by Jon and Sansa and Arya. He even allowed himself a breathless giggle.

 

But the laugh was torn from Rickon’s lungs with cold, painful claws as Rickon suddenly tumbled to the ground, gasping.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh_.

 

This is what death feels like.


	4. spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> elia comes home from a stressful day at work to find ashara on top of a chair with a wooden spoon. after flinging the spider into traffic, they decide to have their very first very special hug.

Elia was stressed on a level where she had hidden in the bathroom at work for the second half of the day. She worked as a waitress at a busy Mexican restaurant four blocks from her and Ashara's apartment, and most of the time the people eating there were horrible and treated her and her coworkers like shit. In fact, she had someone cover her shift while Elia cowered in the bathroom, trying to calm herself down and ignore the angry yelling of customers from outside. Once or twice a group of girls would come in and gossip about how hot the waiters were and how slutty the waitresses dressed in their uniforms. They only made Elia cry more.

She had attempted to clean the smeared mascara off her cheeks, but it really didn't do much than cast a shadow over her face. She walked the four lonely blocks down to her apartment, which was on the third floor of an old complex that overlooked the busy street below. Elia nodded like she always did at the people at the bus stop and went inside. Elia would take the bus to work, but it was easier to walk and the bus fare was too expensive. She climbed the echoing stairs and unlocked the door to apartment number 12.

The apartment was tiny in comparison to the other apartments in the complex. It was only two rooms, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The bathroom was too small to count as a room. Elia slept with Ashara on a mattress on the floor, and the windowsills were overflowing with succulents and houseplants. The kitchen always had dirty dishes in the sink and the microwave didn't work. They had a tiny desk with a broken computer and an old swivel chair, and a bookcase with exactly twenty-three books with worn spines. All of them were traditional literature like Elia and Ashara loved, like A Tale of Two Cities and The Picture of Dorian Gray. The blankets were always thrown off of the mattress at the end of the day, and most of the time Ashara kept the windows flung open.

Elia dropped her bag near the door, gathering breath to complain and rant to her girlfriend about her day, and then stopped when she saw the state of the apartment.

Several of their precious books were on the floor, and a mug was in pieces on the floor. Ashara was on the swivel chair in the middle of the tiny hall, holding a wooden spoon and looking wildly around at the floor.

Elia raised an eyebrow as Ashara raised her violet gaze to look at her girlfriend. Elia placed her keys on the table next to the door. "Why are you on the chair?"

"This is my apartment, too," Ashara said. "I have a right to be anywhere I want."

Elia was quiet for a moment before speaking again. "Where's the spider?"

"It's under the chair please get it," Ashara said, her voice going from commanding to as whiny as a toddler's.

Elia rolled her eyes and grabbed a broom from where it rested in the corner. Approaching the chair, she saw the spider -- a tiny little daddy longlegs. Elia recalled catching these kinds of arachnids and playing with them at summer camp. They were incapable of biting anything, and they just tickled when they walked on your arm. She didn't say any of this to Ashara, though. The violet-eyed Dayne girl was as shy as a mouse, but what she hated was being proved wrong. Elia discarded the broom and simply picked up the spider, walked over to the open window, and flung it out into the traffic below.

"Happy now?" Elia asked as she turned around. Ashara rolled the chair back into the desk and picked up the books she had thrown on the floor -- The Prince and the Pauper, Lord of the Flies, and Harry Potter: The Prisoner of Azkaban. "Yeah, thanks," Ashara said, sliding the books back into their proper places. "How was work?"

Elia's brief happy mood vanished into the air like smoke. "Okay, I guess," she mumbled, sitting down hard on the mattress. Ashara looked up from where she was picking up the broken pieces of the mug. "I don't like that tone," she said warningly. "Did you have a bad day?"

"Yes," Elia said bitterly as Ashara threw the broken porcelain into the trash can. Then she walked over to Elia and sat down beside her. "Tell me about it," she said in a soothing tone.

Elia leaned into her girlfriend, trying not to cry. "Just, everyone is so rude. Not the coworkers or anything, but the people. Like today after I took their drink order one of them called me hot and slapped my ass while I was walking away."

She felt Ashara stiffen next to her. "He did what?"

Elia let a few little tears fall. "I know. It was terrible, Ashy. I don't want to work there anymore."

"Then just get a new job," Ashara said. "There'd be plenty of places hiring." Elia looked up in time to see Ashara glance away and bite her lip. "Or...you could stay at home with me."

Elia blinked. "But...I have to work. Since you stay at home-"

"Just for a few days," Ashara wheedled. "Please. Say you had a family emergency. I miss you. I barely get to see you other than for breakfast and dinner. I want you here with me for more than a few hours."

Elia stared at her lap. She was the one who worked in this relationship -- Ashara was too shy to get work anywhere and didn't like going out of the apartment except for shopping. Elia missed Ashara, it was true -- but her girlfriend never complained about staying at home. Elia thought she enjoyed it.

"I'll take the next few days off," Elia finally said. "But only for now. And I'll start looking for some potential new jobs-"

"Yay!" Ashara yelled happily, bowling Elia over and landing on top of her, hugging her tightly. Elia giggled and wrapped her arms around her, smothering her face in Ashara's dark hair.

When they finally pulled away from each other, Elia was suddenly aware of how close their bodies were. Ashara's warm breath stirred the hair resting on Elia's neck. They'd never been this close in this position before. In fact, since it stirred Elia's memory, they'd never even...they'd never even had sex before. Elia swallowed and looked up into Ashara's stained-glass purple eyes. 

"So, when you said staying home with you..." Elia said slowly, catching a strand of Ashara's hair and twirling it around her finger. "Is this what you meant?"

Realizing was Elia meant, Ashara's eyes widened and her mouth opened a little. A heavy blush spread across her cheeks and into her ears. "I-I mean," she stuttered, her voice getting light and high like it did when she was shy. "I mean, i-if that's what you wanted...I wouldn't mind."

Elia felt a smile spreading across her face and she rolled over, pinning Ashara underneath her. "Have you ever done this before, Ashy?"

Ashara shook her head, mystified. "No. Have you?"

Elia uncomfortably was reminded of her brief but a mildly unhealthy relationship with Rhaegar. "Yes. But I'm going to teach you what to do, okay, starlight?"

Ashara nodded, blinking a few times. "Okay. What do I do first?"

Elia shifted, now kneeling over her. "Get this ugly ass uniform off of me."

Another big blush from Ashara, but she did what she was told. She threw the black apron to the side and then began to slowly unbutton Elia's dress. Her fingers must have been sweaty because they kept slipping on the smooth plastic. But finally, she unhooked the last button and slid the ugly black thing off of Elia, leaving her in her underwear, which consisted of a lacy orange bra and panties of the same material and color. She had discarded her shoes and socks by the door.

Ashara's breath hitched as she stared up at Elia's exposed skin. "Wow," she breathed, tracing a line around Elia's belly button. "You're beautiful, sunshine."

Elia fought down the blush that threatened to creep into her skin and put on a smirk instead. "Now it's my turn."

Ashara normally didn't wear anything but pajamas, but she must have gone out for groceries today because she was dressed. Elia quickly pulled her light purple blouse off and shimmied her jeans off of her skinny legs. She was greeted with a plain bra and thin, lacy gray panties.

Elia pouted. "This is all I get, starlight?"

Ashara blushed. They were both sitting up now, Ashara in between Elia's knees facing her. "I-I wasn't expecting you," was all the shy Dayne girl could say.

Elia smiled. "That's okay. Now it's my turn again." She placed her hands on Ashara's chest, tracing her collarbones with her thumbs. "This is when it gets fun."

Elia then dove down and began to plant kisses all over Ashara's chest, relishing the soft flesh underneath her lips. She heard her girlfriend gasp in shock, startled by the invasion of her midsection. After covering her tummy in kisses, Elia moved up to her exposed chest, all the while running her fingers over the smooth fabric of Ashara's bra strap. 

When Ashara began to stop making loud gasps and only tiny, undetectable sounds, Elia moved on to her neck, but this time it wasn't tame kisses. She latched onto the side of Ashara's neck like a leech and began to suck at her skin.

Ashara's gasp sounded like angels singing, and so when Elia had made a dark enough mark, she moved on to make another, then another, until there were three hickeys all over Ashara's neck. Elia looked up at Ashara, panting a little. The Dayne's face was as red as strawberries and she was looking down at Elia in silent worship. 

"That was our warm up, baby," Elia said. She wrapped her arms around Ashara, and then after hesitating, placed her hands on her bra clip. "Can I see your breasts yet?"

Ashara's eyes widened, a deep blush forming once again. "O-Of course," she stammered, and Elia smirked. She loved seeing Ashara beg, even though she had only seen it once or twice.

Elia slid the clip out of the bra strap, and then let them hang loose. She massaged the space on the side of Ashara's body that was previously covered up by the bra strap, sighing in satisfaction. When she was done, she seized the bra straps over Ashara's shoulders and ripped them off of her.

Ashara had once told her, long ago, that she was flat-chested and she wished for larger breasts. Either she was lying, or the Seven answered her prayers because they encouraged a gasp out of Elia. They were perfect in every way; large and full, hanging down over Ashara's tummy like bags full of apples. Her nipples were pink and perfectly round. Elia looked up at Ashara. She was red in the face and was biting her lip.

"You lied to me about being flat-chested," Elia said, raising her eyebrows. Ashara's purple eyes were pleading. "Please, stop teasing," she whined. 

Elia giggled and leaned down, placing a big fat kiss in Ashara's cleavage. She massaged her nipples with her thumbs, producing loud moans from Ashara. When she grew bored of her cleavage (though it was nice and deep) she leaned over and began to suck at Ashara's right nipple, causing Ashara to gasp and moan louder than ever. She moved onto the left nipple, and then, when she was done, leaned away. She was about to finger Ashara's panties when her girlfriend spoke. "Can't I see yours, too?"

Elia looked down at Ashara. How could she say no to her puppy-dog eyes? The Martell girl smiled. "Of course, starlight," she said, kneeling closer. Ashara swallowed thickly, and then roped her arms around Elia's body, undoing the bra clip and slowly dragging the straps off of her shoulders. Her breath caught as she looked down at Elia's breasts. They weren't as large as Ashara's, but her dark nipples were definitely larger. "They're perfect," Ashara murmured before planting dark kisses all over Elia's breasts, avoiding her nipples.

When finally Elia's breasts were dark with hickeys, Ashara leaned away. "What's next?" she asked, eyes shining.

Elia smirked. "You give me your pussy, baby girl."

Ashara's eyes widened, but before she could say anything, Elia went down and ripped Ashara's panties off of her. Ashara shrieked, and Elia almost did too. She hadn't been paying attention to Ashara's lower half, but now that she was, she couldn't ignore how large the insides of her thighs were. Usually confined by jeans or pajama pants, they sprung out onto the mattress like pancake batter. Elia wondered why Ashara never wore denim jeans; they'd look spectacular on her.

"Seven Gods," Elia mumbled. "Ashara, everything about you is beautiful." She didn't see Ashara's face, because she ducked under and began to kiss all over her thighs, all the while getting closer to her clit. Ashara spread her legs wide, moaning loudly, and Elia was subconsciously aware of her hands on her lower back, their tips nudging under her underwear.

Finally, getting to her clit, Elia looked up at Ashara. "You can take my panties off if you'd like," she said, batting her eyelashes. "But nothing more than massaging and squeezing, okay?"

Ashara nodded and slipped the orange panties down Elia's legs. "W-Why can't I kiss you like you're doing?" Ashara stammered. Elia smirked. "You won't have time to," she said. "I'm going to go inside you, mhmm? It's going to hurt, okay? I promise I'm not trying to hurt you. That's just how it is."

Ashara nodded again, and let Elia push her back down onto the mattress. "W-What do you mean, go inside me?" she said in a small voice. "You'll see, okay?" Elia said. She placed both hands at the creases in her thighs where they met with her pelvis. "You ready?" Elia asked a final time. Ashara nodded, and Elia felt her thighs tense underneath her fingertips.

Elia slid her first finger into Ashara, but nothing the Martell girl could have prepared the Dayne. Ashara's scream should've wakened the dead, and if any neighbors were sleeping, they'd probably be awake now. Elia went up and down, keeping a slow and steady pace. Ashara yelped and almost-screamed the whole time, jerking her legs back and forth and leaning her head back, clenching her teeth and blinking rapidly. Elia guessed she was trying to keep the tears from flowing. When Elia inserted her second finger, she saw the tears begin to fall and sensed that she was close.

"Only two fingers in, starlight?" Elia teased. "I can get almost a whole hand into me before I start bedwetting." Ashara looked down at Elia, breathing heavily. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her breasts jiggling slightly. Precum made Elia's hand slick. "Please," Ashara practically shouted. "Please, Elia, I can't, I can't."

"Just two more fingers?" Elia asked. "Just try for two more?"

Ashara clenched her teeth but nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. Elia continued with two fingers for a while longer and was just barely brushing Ashara's pussy with her third finger before Ashara shrieked and collapsed into her orgasm. Elia removed her fingers and rolled over, hanging half-off the mattress as she watched Ashara roll over onto her stomach and prop herself up on her forearms, shrieking and moaning as she struggled through her orgasm.

Finally, when she stopped, she rolled over once again so she was on her back next to Elia. "Elia," she said in a light voice. "T-That was amazing. C-Can we do it again? Please? I-"

"Shh, starlight," Elia said, pressing a still-wet finger to Ashara's lips. Ashara looked at it for a moment, before seizing it and beginning to suck on it, looking innocently up at Elia.

In response, Elia smiled. "Soon, baby. I promise. And I'll quit my job in the morning."

"In the morning?" Ashara asked as Elia took back her finger and stood up. It felt strange to be naked in front of Ashara, but she better get used to it. "Why not now?"

Elia smiled down at Ashara. "I've got a beautiful, naked girlfriend to take care of."

Ashara smiled and jumped forward, wrapping her arms around Elia's legs. Elia laughed and pulled Ashara up so they were both standing, lips against lips, breasts against breasts, girlfriend against girlfriend...happy Dornish girl against happy Dornish girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY WROTE THIS HOLY SHIET!!!!
> 
> I wanted to write an Ashila smut fic for a while and I finally got around to it!!! :D it's my first time writing smut so bear with all the mistakes I probably made oof. and idk why I made it this long!!! sorry!!!! aaah!!!!!!!


	5. corpse bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay gets in a bit of a pickle when he's betrothed to a dead woman.
> 
> (Dedicated to my bfffffffff jackie/ @softfawnangel as a very very late birthday present! end notes for more)

Ramsay skidded to a stop in the middle of the forest, panting hard. He hadn’t meant to run away, but now it appeared he had. He looked down at the ring in his hands. It had turned sweaty from his hands. He had run from his wedding rehearsal because he had forgotten his stupid vows — maybe he could practice here?  
There was a scraggly root sticking up from the ground like a finger, and he supposed he could practice on that.   
I, Ramsay Bolton,” He stammered, ”Take you, Myranda Snow, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part."  
With shaking hands, Ramsay slipped the ring onto the root and sighed, sitting down on a rock.   
The ground began to tremble, and the root shuddered back into the ground. The dirt fell away into a large hole in the floor, and Ramsay shouted, jumping up off of the rock.   
Slowly a figure emerged from the dirt. It was a girl, not much younger than Ramsay. She had matted, dirty ginger hair and wore a tattered veil that trailed onto the ground. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, and they seemed too icy to be of this world. She wore a long, lacy white dress was that clotted with dirt and weeds. Her neck and bare chest seemed to be covered in something rusty colored. Perhaps a necklace? It wasn’t a necklace, Ramsay realized, considering the wide, gaping line in the girl’s neck. Why did I think it was a necklace?  
“Ramsay Bolton,” the girl said in a wispy, soft voice rounded with glee. “How happy we will be in the Land of the Dead!”  
Ramsay barely had time to scream before this corpse bride grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him down, down, down into her grave. 

 

“Has he fainted?”  
“I believe so, Ash. Fetch some water for the boy, won’t you?”  
“Of course. If he wakes up, make him lay down for a bit longer.”  
The sound of soft voices roused Ramsay. His eyes fluttered open, his eyelashes tickling his cheeks.   
The room around him slowly came into focus. A white-haired man was crouching over him, looking at him worriedly. Footsteps were echoing through the loud, wooden room. Ramsay coughed and attempted to sit up.   
“No, no, stay down, son,” the man soothed, putting a firm hand on his chest and pressing him back into the floor. “Please stay down, you’re still groggy. You had quite a tumble.”  
“Where...where am I?” Ramsay stammered. The man glanced around. “The Land of the Dead. Where else would you be, son?”  
“No...no, wait! I’m alive! I’m supposed to be alive!” Ramsay shouted, surging up off of the ground. The man protested but didn’t try to force him down again.   
Footsteps sounded outside the room and a door swung open. A young woman with long, dark hair and startling violet eyes entered, carrying a bowl of sloshing water.   
“On, he’s up,” she said cheerfully. She set down the bowl on a table next to her. “Did you wake him up or did he-“   
“Out of my way!” Ramsay yelled, panicked, as he barreled last her and down the hall. The sound of merry voices echoed through the space, and he spied a door at the end of the hall. He sprinted toward it, ignoring the protests and calls of the two people behind him as he flung the door open.   
The people occupying the room turned, startled. Most of them were women, but there were a few men dressed in finery amongst them. But standing tall above the others was the corpse bride, the one who had dragged him into her grave. She stood on a wooden box and was dressed the same way, but the dirt and weeds had been cleaned off the dress and her veil was no longer tattered, and thin, white lines showed where it had been mended. The blood had been washed off her front, but the wide line in her neck remained. Her hair was still a bit dirty, but it had been brushed until it should’ve shone, but it was still dark and dull.   
“You can’t see her!” One of the women shrieked. She has long, brown hair and a round face and doe-like eyes. She carried a pair of scissors in her hands and waved them frantically. “The groom can’t see his bride before the wedding!”  
“What wedding?” Ramsay stammered. The women all gasped and muttered. “He doesn’t know,” one of them murmured.  
The brunette looked at him more closely, and then reeled back, hissing. “He is alive,” she snarled. “A live boy! Only the dead are fit to marry Sansa!”   
The women all descended on Ramsay, hissing and screaming, and he was sure he was going to be cut to death by sewing needles or scissors. But not even a few seconds after his ambush a high, clear voice rang out, screaming for the women to stop.   
The ladies slowly backed away, muttering. Ramsay watched from the floor as the bride stepped down from her box, slowly making her way over to him. She outstretched her hand, asking him to take it. Instead, Ramsay climbed to his feet himself, and the girl didn’t seem to retaliate.   
“I haven’t told him we are to be married,” she said serenely. “But now he knows.” She smiled sweetly him. “Forgive me for not telling you earlier. I was in a bit of a rush to get back down here. My name is Sansa, your fiancé.”  
Ramsay stared at her, not daring to speak, and thankfully the two people who had been with him when he woke up barged in. The young woman’s purple eyes were like fire. “Don’t run away like that!” She cried, but her voice was more pleading than angry.   
“Lady Ashara, there is no need to be angry,” Sansa said. “I have told Ramsay what is happening. Please, will you and Ser Barristan go back to the chamber and await any new guests?”  
Ashara quickly curtsied. “Of course, Lady Sansa,” she said, standing up and hurrying back int the hall, Barristan at her heels.   
Ramsay noticed something about all the undead surrounding him; they all had some sort of horrible wound. Ashara’s legs and neck were twisted in a terrifying way, and Ser Barristan had a bloody hole in his armor. The brunette who had confronted Ramsay first had green fire licking the hem of her skirt and the ends of her hair, but it never seemed to complete its job of burning her. A blonde standing nearby had blood all down her face and pink dress, and some was still trickling out of her nose and mouth.   
They’re all dead, Ramsay noticed with a bit of finality. By the end of the night, will I be dead, too?   
“It’s alright that he’s seen me,” Sansa reassured the ladies. “We can resume in another room. Myrcella, please go fetch Ashara and Barristan, will you? And stay in there until I send them back. I’ll have them escort my groom-to-be.” She smiled at him, before whisking away in a flurry of white lace and long veil, the ladies all swarming around her like flies as she exited. The brunette gave Ramsay a final glare before following.   
The blonde who had blood all down her front, Myrcella, gently touched his arm. “Don’t mind Margaery,” she whispered sweetly. “She’s been waiting for Sansa to join her, and she’s not very happy that she’s brought company.” She lightly squeezed his arm in a friendly gesture, and the disappeared down the hall, going to get his tour guides of the underworld. 

 

Lady Ashara and Ser Barristan were surprisingly good hosts. They showed him around the narrow hallways of the Land of the Dead, carefully avoiding crowded spaces. They explained that it was bigger on the outside and the hallways were just a method of transportation.   
“We have to go back to the welcoming chamber, but we’ll bring you to Lady Shireen so you can be ready for your big day,”Ashara said gently. “She’s very sweet. You’ll be fine.”  
They shoved him into a dark room and closed the door. Looking around, he discovered it wasn’t that dark — a young girl sat at a desk nearby with a candle, writing furiously. She looked up at the sound of the door closing and turned around, her expression surprised.   
She had a very round face and cheeks still swollen with baby fat. Half of her face was taken up by some sort of grey growth that crawled down onto her neck. She wore a long-sleeved pink shirt and a navy jumper, something quite plain compared to Ashara’s glittering purple-and-gold toga and Sansa’s long wedding dress. As she stood, he saw that the hem of her dress and the ends of her blonde hair were smoldering, sort of like Margaery’s, but they weren’t on fire. Her hair was woven with deer antlers.   
“Hi,” she said sweetly. “I’m Shireen. I suppose Ashara and Barristan dumped you here?”  
Ramsay was taken aback by her outward friendliness. Even though Ashara and Barristan were nice, they had been a little jittery around him, but Shireen was already acting like she knew him well. She got up and walked towards him, and he realized she created a warm glow as she walked through the darkness.  
“How are you liking your time here?” She asked. Ramsay shrugged a little. “W-Why am I here?” He asked nervously.   
Shireen smiled, which was pretty because it made her eyes shine and her plump cheeks gather even more flesh. “You gave Sansa your vows, didn’t you?” She asked. “In the forest. You are betrothed.”  
Ramsay’s memory went back to the forest. Had he said his vows completely? Yes, he thought miserably. I did.   
Shireen lightly touched his arm, the same way Myrcella had done. “It’ll be fine. Sansa’s so sweet, she’ll treat you fine. She’s been wanting a worthy husband for a long time, you know.”  
Ramsay was startled. “I thought she was dead.”  
“Yes, well...” Shireen said, fidgeting. “Her previous fiancé killed her on their wedding night. They were going to elope, but...he had a change of heart.”  
Ramsay watched as she turned and went over to another door. She rummaged around before pulling out a wrinkled, old suit.  
“This is the best I have,” she said, smiling widely. “Go into the closet and get dressed. Then we’ll get you out to the chapel to get married!”  
She shoved him into the closet and closed the door, and Ramsay could hear her giggling from the other side.   
He wondered whether he could trust Shireen. In fact, could he trust anyone here? Shireen, Ashara, Barristan, Myrcella and Sansa seemed nice enough, but what about Margaery? Surely there were more people like her here. What if everyone else disapproved of this marriage? But, more importantly, how was he going to get back to his world, back to Myranda?  
He stared down at the suit in his arms. Maybe if he just faked — he could fake his marriage and get them to release him back to the Land of the Living?  
He didn’t think it was very plausible, but he could at least try. He’d get to know Sansa. Maybe even become friends. He’d never had a true friend. He and Myranda had only known each other for a short time and didn’t like each other very much. Did Shireen count as a friend? Could Sansa?  
One thing was for sure, though. He was going to survive. Surely a marriage couldn’t kill you?  
He thought of what Shireen had told him about Sansa’s past. Okay, so maybe you could die from a marriage. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was going to live long enough to get back to his world. And, who knew — perhaps with Sansa at his side?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this for my best bff, Jackie for her birthday, which was technically 2 days ago but i did this within a week!!!! be proud!!! 
> 
> really cheesy thing 2 Jackie:
> 
> aaaaaa what can i say? you are the awesomest (that's a word, by the way) person i know and good god how much shit have we been through? bitch girls, sort-of-breakups, runaway aus, all of it. I really don't know what to say other than a big THANK YOU. you are just unspeakably amazing. i give you endless internet hugs and even more air kisses. i will see you someday!!!!!
> 
> (p.s. air travel in AMERICA is LEGAL for MINORS so SEE U SOON, B I T CH E S)


	6. the christmas truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Christmas Day in 1914, and Ramsay is very confused when Ironborn soldiers start coming out of their trenches unarmed. 
> 
> **a Christmas present for @softfawnangel !!**

Ramsay rubbed his hands together, his breath coming out in white clouds. Sitting in the trenches was agony in itself. The ground was cold, the dirt had turned to mud, and the stench of sickness reeked in every corner. You couldn’t sit down anywhere without seeing a dead body. The corpses didn’t bother Ramsay. The cold didn’t, either. He was one of the few who volunteered to fight in the war, one who wasn’t forced to. 

It was the waiting that bothered him. He and his troops had been sitting in the trenches for about a week now, simply waiting until the other side tried to make a run across no man’s land. So far they hadn’t seen as much as a hair stick up from the other side. Ramsay wanted them to try and charge across. His rifle was getting cold.

It was Christmas Day. Perhaps that’s why the Ironborn hadn’t made a move. Maybe they were sitting in their trenches praying to their Drowned God for good wishes to their families back home. Christmas wasn’t of major importance to Ramsay. He let his men follow whatever religion they wanted, as long as they would fight into the depths of hell for it.

If he was being honest, Ramsay wanted to go home. He had left his young wife, Sansa, at home at Dreadfort to fight on the front lines. He got letters from her every week, and he would hastily send one back in between skirmishes. He was expecting to get one today, wishing him a peaceful Christmas Day.

Ramsay was rubbing the barrel of his rifle, like he always did when he was impatient, when one of his officers came running up to him. “Sir,” he said hurriedly. “The Ironborn are crossing no man’s land.”

Ramsay’s heart soared. “Then get to the guns!” He said, sounding like an excited six-year-old. “Blow them up! Didn’t I give you orders to shoot any man than came out of those trenches?”

“Yes, sir, you did, but...” the officer bit his lip. “They’re unarmed. They’re calling for a truce.”

“A truce?” Ramsay echoed. “There’s been a cease-fire for the last week. What more could they want?”

“Just...I think they want to talk to you. Maybe.” The officer said, backing away.

Ramsay sighed and climbed to the top of the trench, peeking over and brushing raven curls out of his eyes. Sure enough, he saw a whole horde of Ironborn soldiers slowly trudging across the barren, barbed-wire plain, their hands up next to their heads. At the group’s head was their general, Theon Greyjoy. He looked dirty and distraught as he took tentative steps over corpses and mounds from grenades.

Ramsay slid back down into the trench.

“What shall we do, sir?” The officer asked.

Ramsay looked at him, his mind working quickly. His mind, hands and feet were screaming at him to seize his rifle and shoot all of the soldiers down, but a smaller, much quieter voice in his heart was whispering: take the truce. It may be the last friendly contact you have with anyone, ever.

He pursed his lips, and then sighed tragically. He tossed his rifle down into the mud. Without giving an answer to the officer, he climbed to the trench again, pulled himself onto the blood-soaked, frozen grass, and raised his hands.

One by one his men climbed out after him. Ramsay took the same speed as the Ironborn, treading lightly and careful not to step on any dead bodies. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some men pick up corpses and begin dragging them back to the trenches.

Ramsay let his hands sag at his sides as he came to a stop, just feet away from the man he’d been fighting against for the past six months. Theon looked a lot different than the pictures he had seen of him. In the photographs, his curly hair was cut short and he had a mischievous grin. The man in front of him was bedraggled from loss. His hair hung over his eyes and his mouth was a pursed, straight line, and his once spotless uniform was tattered and muddy and bloody.

“We seek a truce,” Theon said in a voice hoarse from screaming. “A Christmas truce.” He held out his hand, and Ramsay took an alarmed step back. The Ironborn general’s hand was covered in bloody scabs and was shaking. Ramsay looked back up at his face and saw that his blue eyes were pleading.

Cautiously at first, but then more sure, Ramsay reached out and took Theon’s hand. It was rough and shaky, but Theon grasped his hand firmly and nodded at him. Ramsay nodded back and the soldiers took this as a signal to step forward. Ramsay watched as Ironborn soldiers stepped up to shake hands and hug his own Northern troops. He saw one of his men hand a group of shivering young Ironborn boys a stack of canned food. 

Several minutes later the two, once-warring sides were speaking merrily to each other. Ramsay sat on a rock, watching his men and Theon’s get all jumbled together. He cracked a rare smile when one of the Ironborn boys came back from his trench with a soccer ball, and the men quickly divided into teams, shouting and laughing as they kicked the ball through barbed wire goals.

The emotions rose as the sun went down. Soon they lit torches and planted them in the ground so they could see. Now Theon sat at Ramsay’s side, both of them watching silently as their men got along so well.

Was it a sign? Ramsay kept thinking. Is this a sign that the war should end? Could they all go home and spend the new year with their families? Ramsay longed for Sansa. How he wanted to kiss her underneath blazing fireworks as crowds cheered to ring in 1915. It was the one thing he wanted in the whole world.

It was getting late. The moon was high overhead and the men were getting sleepy. The soccer game had been stopped due to fatigue and most men leaned against sharp wooden posts. Ramsay stood, and most of his men did the same. 

“We must be getting back to our trenches,” Ramsay said to Theon, his voice overcome with choked emotion. He offered his hand and Theon took it, hauling himself to his feet. Theon gazed at Ramsay with gratitude and sadness, as if it was the last fleeting glance they’d ever share.

“I’ll see you around, General Bolton,” Theon said, his voice still hoarse. Ramsay offered his hand and Theon took it, shaking it firmly. His hand no longer shook. 

Ramsay stepped down from the rock and called the Northern troops to him. As they walked away, Ramsay glanced behind him. The Ironborn troops were trudging back to their trenches. Ramsay spotted the boy who had brought the soccer ball, cradling it like a baby. Theon walked with his shoulders sagging. 

Ramsay stayed at the top of the trench until all of his men were down safely. Through the ever-constant smoke, Ramsay could just about make out Theon standing at his trench as well, a forlorn little shape against all of the bloodlust and destruction. Ramsay raised his hand in farewell. Theon did the same, and then Ramsay jumped back down into the horror of the trench.

 

—

“Ramsay, sweetheart,” Sansa called, walking out of the kitchen. Her ginger hair was pulled back into a messy braid and she wore a blue-and-white frock with a spotless white apron. It was the only thing that fit her anymore; her belly was swollen with child.

Ramsay looked up from where he was reading the paper on his couch. Sansa held out a letter, and Ramsay took it, a bit puzzled. He didn’t know who it would be from.

Nothing but his name occupied the front, so he tore the seal and shimmied the letter out. The front simply said, For Ramsay Bolton. Ramsay sensed Sansa watching him over his shoulder.

He folded open the letter and began to read.

Dear Mr. Bolton,

You may remember my brother, Gen. Theon Greyjoy of the 4th Iron Regiment, from the battles from 1914-1915. You were on opposite sides of the trenches. The only time you saw each other in friendly light was for the 1914 Christmas truce. You never spoke to each other again.

Theon’s troops were moved out of those trenches in January of 1915. He saw action at two other battles before he was captured at the First Champagne Offensive. He was tortured by Lannister troops until he starved to death in their prisons. His body was burned along with over two hundred and fifty noble Ironborn men in a mass bonfire.

I met with my brother a few weeks before he was captured at Champagne. He told me of a brave, noble Bolton general who he had shaken hands with at the Christmas truce. He said that even though that general had killed a good amount of his men on that bloody western front, he wouldn’t have had any other man to fight against.

My brother’s last wish was to speak to you after the war, if you both survived. He wanted to not speak of the war, but of simple things. About your life. Your family. My brother admired you. He admired your bravery and your chivalry in the heat of battle. He wanted to be the brave general you were. I’m sure one of his last thoughts was of you.

Perhaps one day we can meet to talk about my brother.

Sincerely,

Yara Greyjoy

Ramsay folded up the letter and quietly put it back in its envelope, trying to ignore the fact his eyes were tickling from tears. Sansa had moved away and back into the kitchen; no doubt she had finished reading it before him. He thought about that last fleeting glance he had of Theon — the lonely figure surrounded by smoke and blood. He wished he had spoken to him more at the Christmas truce. He truly was a man Ramsay would’ve wanted to know. 

He took the letter and put it in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Soon enough he’d forget about it, and maybe years later he would dig it up while looking for paperwork. He’d read it and remember what a brave man Theon Greyjoy had been, and remember the silent night that had been the Christmas truce.


	7. homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys are back
> 
> Another thing for Jackie bc I love writing WWI/WWII aus

Sansa woke up one cool, summery day, expecting nothing but the ordinary: Usual war updates on the radio. Normal volunteer posters in the windows. Nothing out of the ordinary.

She was making breakfast before going to wake up the kids when the notice came on the radio. It interrupted her soft, lilting opera music with mastic static. She wrinkled her nose, moving to turn the knob to get it back onto the right channel, but then stopped as a garbled news anchor’s voice came on instead.

“Attention ladies and gentlemen of the country,” the radio wheezed. “Attention. We have just received news from the eastern front. The Targaryen forces have surrendered, I repeat, the Targaryen forces have surrendered. The war is over. I repeat, the war is over.”

The knife Sansa had been holding fell to the tile floor with a loud crash, and her hands flew to her face, her eyes bubbling up with tears. The radio message kept repeating and repeating, but it went in one ear and out the other.

Sansa dropped to the floor in a crouch, bringing her knees up to her face. She began to cry, not out of sadness, but in relief. Pure, happy relief.

“Mama!” Called a little voice from the hallway. Sansa didn’t have to look to know it was Vickon, her oldest son at four years old. Merewen followed more slowly, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She still held her plushie rabbit. 

“Mama, what happened? We heard a big bang.” Vickon fretted, ambling forwards and putting his little hands on Sansa’s leg. “Mama, why are you crying?”

Sansa reached forward and pulled him into a very tight hug. “I’m not sad, little one,” she said in between gasps. “I’m not sad. I must be the happiest woman in the country.”

Vickon looked puzzled. “Then why are you crying?”

Sansa brushed his hair back from his face. “It’s something women do when they’re over emotional, sweetheart. Now come on, let’s get you two dressed. We’ve got a big day to plan for.”

 

Two weeks later, Sansa, Vickon and Merewen stood at the docks of Pyke, joined by dozens upon dozens of other anxious families. Ship after ship had sailed in, dumping out malnourished, sick Ironborn soldiers and then sailing off again. Most of the ships that were bound for the inland cities had already arrived; Sansa had already received word that her brothers had all returned home to Winterfell safely.

But Sansa’s biggest concern right now was the person getting off the big, gray battleship cruising into the harbor.  
“Why are we here again, Mama?” Vickon asked. She had forced him into a dashing little collared shirt and pants, yet he kept messing with his bow tie and scuffing his shoes on the concrete. “We see the boats every day. Why is everyone here today?”

“Because,” Merewen said matter-of-factly, “war stuff. That’s what Mama told me.”

“Mama told you and not me?” Vickon seethed, looking just about ready to tussle his sister to the ground. Sansa put a hand on his shoulder before he could launch himself at her. “We’re here because your father wanted us to come,” she said.

Vickon’s eyes lit up. “Daddy told us to come?” He said excitedly. “Okay, then I’ll be really good.” He stood ramrod straight with his chin up and eyes shining.

Sansa smiled and looked back up at the warship. It had docked and the ramp slammed down onto the walkway. Men in dark gray and brown uniforms swarmed down the gangplank, and the air was filled with the shouts and cries of reuniting family members. 

Sansa’s blue eyes scanned the fray of people for familiar brown hair, for seaglass eyes. She really wasn’t sure what ship he’d be on; she just knew a majority of the Ironborn troops were arriving today. She hoped he was on this one.

A lithe shadow slid through the ranks of dirty-looking soldiers. Sansa perked up. She knew that shade of skin anywhere. She stood up on her tip toes, looking across the fray of people, and was startled when he popped out in front of her.

When Theon had come back from the war about three years ago for a brief Christmastime, he had looked bedraggled; his hair had been matted and tangled and hung down into his permanently-startled eyes. Bloody scabs covered his body and even little Vickon, who had been nearing his second birthday, had screamed and run from him.

But now Theon looked as pristine and regal as he had before. He had cut his hair and his skin was clean, and only faint white lines showed where those scabs had been. His eyes shone with a light that hadn’t been there before. His uniform was spotless and medals shone at his chest. Even his white gloves, which even when he wore them in peacetime would get dirty, were immaculate.

“DADDY!” Vickon practically screamed, flying into Theon’s legs. Theon puffed out a startled breath, but then grinned that immaculate doofus amazing sent from heaven mother of god everything is fine I’ve defeated satan and killed him in the depths of hell and grown wings to fly and bring his remains up to jesus grin and stooped down to scoop Vickon up, laughing as Vickon flung his arms around his neck. Merewen shrieked as well and went running to him, and Theon balanced Vickon on one arm as he scooped Merewen up with his other arm to smother her face in ticklish kisses.

He set the children down and crouched down to listen to them as they both tried to talk over each other. Finally Theon stood, still smiling, and raised his eyes to look at Sansa.

She had been attempting to hide the shaking in her shoulders but could do it not longer. She let out a loud, choking sob and practically jumped into Theon’s arms, which were around her in an instant. He was warm, warmer than he had been those three years ago when he had staggered off that ship half-dead. He lifted her off the ground and spun her around, and she just kept crying, grabbing the back of his shirt to make sure he was real.

Theon pulled away and without missing a beat leaned in and kissed her. It was like air blown on embers; an old, fierce, nearly buried longing burst into life in Sansa’s chest and she leaned in, putting a hand on the side of his face. She was unconsciously aware of Vickon and Merewen jumping around their feet and shrieking with happiness, but right now her world was just Theon and only Theon.

Finally they pulled away and took a long moment to stare into each other’s blue eyes.

“Did you win?” Sansa whispered jokingly.

Theon smiled another dazzling smile. “Of course I did,” he said, leaning in close again. “Because I’m here with you.”


	8. the boy king of ice and human flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's midnight but I just had this thought so here's a drabble cause I'm.a slut for rickon

Rickon's memory was divided in two: before the separation and after the separation. Before the separation was a happier, more peaceful time, where Rickon had a family and a roof over his head and good food three times a day. It was a blissful time where he could run wherever he wanted with Shaggydog at his side and not have a care in the world. 

Then there was after the separation . After Osha dragged him away from his astranged brother that he loved so much and the smoldering remains of his childhood home . It was the days of the freezing nights when he and Osha went days without a proper supper. It was the days of Rickon's present. 

But, in a way, Rickon was so much more comfortable in the present. Osha had taken him to the last place anyone would dare search for him: Skagos, the feared island off the coast, home to cannibals and unicorns. Rickon was right at home among the wildling folk. He dressed like them, talked like them, and even took blood markings like them. He was given a blood markings shaped like a jagged red muzzle, cut deep into the skin of his lower face. He took pride in his blood markings -- it made people fear him. 

For so many years Rickon lived, undisturbed, on Skagos, letting Shaggydog roam free and hunting whenever he pleased. Skagos was a place where he could truly be a king. So when the strange, white-bearded man showed up on the island's beach, claiming Rickon as the true King in the North, he had every right to decline the offer. But the strange onion knight, as Osha called him, promised him his brothers and sisters. What was left of them, anyways; he said that his sister and half brother Lady Sansa and Lord Jon waited for him at Winterfell. Lady Arya was roaming the continent and Bran was still missing. It was the promise of seeing Bran that made Rickon cave, give in, and let himself be ferried away from the island that had given him so much bliss and freedom, his wildling mother and immense black demon at his side. 

The onion knight took him back to Winterfell, a place where when he had seen it last, the walls had crumbled and it was burnt to a crisp by Theon Greyjoy. Rickon felt uneasy riding through the gates of the keep on the back of a unicorn he had taken from Skagos. People gasped and fled at the sight of him. Was it the blood marks, his griminess, his wildling attire, or all three? 

Sansa had rushed out of the keep to drag him off of his mount and hug him fiercely, which made Rickon rightly uncomfortable, and cooed at him like he was still a baby. Then she ushered him inside so he could see Jon, who hugged him as well and ruffled his hair. Rickon took a liking to Jon over Sansa. 

And then everyone was shouting King in the North, King in the North and he had a heavy crown of silver and obsidian on his adolescent head. Men, scores older than Rickon, raised their swords and knelt to him. All of their lives were depending on the actions of a boy just shy of his fourteenth nameday .

So Rickon believed he had the right to abdicate when Jon brought the news of a huge army of dead men and dead wildlings rising North of the wall. He believed he had the right to abdicate when a corrupt queen ascended onto the Iron Throne. And he definitely had the choice to abdicate when a dragon princess landed on the island of Dragonstone, begging like a trailing leper for help in her conquest that had been fufilled a millennia ago, a fact that Rickon knew well, and a fact that went right over the princess's head. 

The people who had forced the crown upon his head were now calling for Jon to be king. Rickon didn't understand the squabbles of mainland men. On Skagos, it was simple: a candidate for leader would stand in the middle of a circle and try to defeat anyone who came to challenge him. Then, the candidate feasted on the dead men's flesh, and whoever killed more men or could stomach enough raw flesh won. If they were on Skagos, Jon would likely back down and excuse himself from the beaches as soon as he saw the massive spits rolling over the embers of fires made and tended to for years. 

These petty mainlanders didn't know what it was like to loose their brother, their home and everything they had known in one entire day. Rickon was the only one who knew that. And if the mainlanders tried to rebel...well, the Skagosi hadn't made Rickon king of their island for nothing. 


	9. gods help the outcasts

The huge doors clanked shut behind Shireen, making her jump. The last light of the day was shining weakly through the windows in the ceiling, illuminating the huge copper bell hanging in the belltower. Before her the floor dropped away into stairs and a lowered floor. The walls were adorned with paintings of the Seven and the sigil of House Lannister. Towering above the floor were seven huge statues of the gods and goddesses themselves.

The Father stood directly across from the door, his mouth open with a carved star sitting in his jaw. His arms were spread wide in a T-pose and he carried a scythe and a set of scales in each hand. To his left was the Mother, cradling a baby and her eyes cast downward. Then in a circle it went as the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and then finally the Stranger, tucked in a shadowy alcove that appeared to catch no sunlight at any time of day.

Shireen crept forward, feeling tiny and unimportant inside such an immense room. She spun in a circle, taking in the beautiful painted statues. The sunlight was fading. Soon the only light would be the torches in the walls.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Shireen said softly, even the smallest sound echoing so loudly. “Or if you’re even there.” She looked up, up, up at the Father’s statue, feeling unsettled in the line of his godly sight. She didn’t worship these gods. She only knew them by name and by description. She was loyal to the Lord of Light, personally. Her family and friends had been captured by the Lannisters and hauled back by force to King’s Landing. Cersei had tried to force Stannis and Selyse into the religion, and eventually locked Stannis in the Sept two nights ago in attempt to convert him. But when they opened the doors the next morning they had found him, still wide awake, standing defiantly in the middle of the room shouting curses at him. They had burned him alive that day, in front of Selyse and Shireen. Then they had put Selyse in the Sept that night, and opened the doors to find that Selyse had put out a few torches and smeared the charcoal on the statues. The stone had been scrubbed, but not without a small cost — some of the beautiful paint had been scraped away as well. Shireen had been surprised to feel proud of her mother when her crimes were announced and she was tethered to the stake. She had died singing songs of the Lord’s glory and might. After her ashes had been sent back to her family, all eyes turned back to Shireen.

And now they had locked Shireen in the Sept in attempt to convert her as well.

“I don’t know why’d you listen to a pagan’s prayer,” she continued, resuming her slow journey around the perimeter of the floor. “They tell me I am just an outcast, I shouldn’t speak to you...” Shireen drew in a soft, slow breath. “Still, I see your face and wonder...” She slowly turned to stare into the Stranger’s dark, empty eyes. “Were you once an outcast, too...?”

She took very slow steps towards the Stranger’s statue. She wasn’t sure where the Stranger stood in the lineup of the Seven, but his statue was big and black and he seemed very important. He had dozens of candles at his feet. Surely he was prayed to often? Shireen’s already lilting voice rose a few octaves and she continued her soft hymn.

“Gods help the outcasts, hungry from birth,” she sang sweetly, stopping to stare up at the Stranger. “Show them the mercy they won’t find on earth.”

Devan and Eric crossed her mind — her best friends since birth. Edric had been taken across the Narrow Sea to Lys, where he lived in solitude. But Devan had been captured along with the Baratheons as well as his father and brothers. He was a follower of the Lord of Light, though the Lannisters likely wouldn’t subject him to a night in the Sept. Even so, she silently prayed to a god, any god, for his and Edric’s safety.

Looking up at the Stranger she wondered if the Seven were ever real people. Had any of them been outcasts, like Shireen was? She absentmindedly touched the left side of her face. The grayscale was dry and leathery underneath her soft fingertips. People ran from her in the marketplace because of her scars. A shivering breath escaped her lips. What god had been so cruel to put grayscale in the world?

“Gods help my people, they look to you, still,” she sang, a little bit quieter. Even though most people who were looked down on by the nobles were still followers of the Seven, she wanted them to be safe, no matter what gods or religion they followed. “Gods help the outcasts...or nobody will.”

She walked over to the Father’s statue and stared down at the offerings at his feet. He had more flowers and little bun cakes and candles than the Stranger had. Some people had written prayers on little folded cards and tucked them in between the flower petals. I ask for wealth, one card read. I ask for fame, read another. I ask for glory to shine on my name.

Shireen picked up a few other cards. I ask for love I can possess. Shireen put that one back gently and scanned her eyes over another. I ask the gods and their angels to bless me.

Such selfishness, Shireen thought indignantly. Reading all of them quickly, there was not one dedicated to the poor. Rushing over to the Mother, she discover that none of the prayers there were for poor people, too. Indignation bubbled up inside of her.

“I ask for nothing!” She shouted, whirling around to stare at the circle of statues. The cry echoed quieter and quieter each time. “I can get by. But I know so many less lucky than I.”

She walked back over to the Stranger’s statue. She gently began moving the candles aside. He had no offerings, no prayers, no flowers. Just candles, probably mandatory. No one prayed to him.

“Please help my people,” Shireen begged, sliding onto her knees before the statue. “The poor and downtrod.” Without moving her head she reached up and plucked the crown off her head. It was diamond and gold, with little traces of obsidian. It cost a fortune. Gently she set it at the Stranger’s feet. “I thought we all were the children of God.”

Shireen crawled up into the tiny alcove she had made between the steps, the candles, and the Stranger’s feet, curling up against the cold stone. She stared down at the crown. That was her offering. Her crown. Her claim to the throne. She had lain her birthright at the feet of the Stranger.

“Gods help the outcasts,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Her long eyelashes tickled her cheeks. “Children of God.”

—————

 

The next morning the queen found the little princess asleep at the feet of the Stranger. Upon waking her, the child insisted that the Stranger had visited her in her dreams, wearing the crown she had given to him as an offering. Furious that her plan actually worked, Cersei condemned her to death and had the crown smashed and the pieces thrown into the fire in which she would die.

Witnesses to the princess’s burning stated that as the fire was lit at her feet, the sweet child sang a beautiful song pleading for mercy to outcasts. She did not scream once.

The poor people, looking on, scraped the pieces of the crown out of the ashes of the fire and fashioned it back together the best they could, before giving it to a nimble little boy that could climb nearly anything. Upon hearing the story of the princess’s final dream, the boy climbed to the top of the Stranger’s statue and placed the pagan princess’s tiny crown on his head. The queen never noticed. No other statue had a crown. Only the poor who went into the Sept noticed the tiny piece of jewelry. And she the queen blew up the Sept with wildfire, the Stranger’s statue and the crown on his head stayed intact. The queen called it luck. But to the outcasts, it was known as the miracle of the Stranger’s princess.


	10. chasing parties

“That was amazing,” Elia said, sliding into the driver’s seat of her Jeep. Her smile was huge as Ashara timidly slid into the passenger seat. Ashara noticed, uneasily, that her friend’s cheeks were flushed, but not from the old-style aviator’s jacket she wore.

“Elia,” Ashara said slowly, “do you want me to drive?”

“What?” Elia scoffed, turning the car on. “Nah, Ash! I’m fine! We’re fine!”

“Okay,” Ashara said, still doubtful. “So do you need the directions to my apartment or—“

“What?” Elia said again, looking at Ashara like she had grown a dragon for a head. “You’re going home? Ashara! Oh my gods, that’s so lame. We’re going to Jon Connington’s party, silly!”

“Jon Connington’s party?” Ashara said in a small voice. Jon Connington was one of Rhaegar, Elia’s boyfriend’s, best friends. She had never met him in person, just in passing. She remembered the rowdy blonde boy from another party she had been to. He had knocked over a table when he had tackled Rhaegar.

“Of course,” Elia said, pulling away from the curb. “We won’t be in college forever, Ashy. We’ve gotta live it to the fullest.”

“I have an essay due next week,” Ashara said compassionately as apartments flashed by. “I want to finish it tonight.”

“Ashy, stop being a perfect schoolgirl for once,” Elia scoffed, belittled, waving a hand at her face. “And stop dressing like one for once, too. You’ve got to live a little.”

Ashara looked down at herself. She wore her long hair in low pigtails and wore a simple purple T-shirt advertising a kind of grape soda (Arthur had known how much she loved vintage tees and got it for her) and a gray plait skirt and Sperrys. She really did dress like a schoolgirl.

Elia cranked up her Spotify and sang along loudly to Taylor Swift’s voice while Ashara rode next to her in reticence. It was discernible that Elia was drunk — she never spoke to Ashara so bluntly when she was sober. Ashara had never touched a drop of alcohol ever since she threw up in Robert Baratheon’s backyard after a party.

Elia pulled up in front of a large Mediterranean house with a warm gold glow casting onto the front bushes from the windows. Inside, Ashara could already see a surplus of people holding red cups and laughing hysterically.

“Come on,” Elia said, stumbling out of the car and staggering up towards the house. Ashara followed, considering snatching the keys from Elia’s hands and booking it back to the car. But soon enough she was standing inside a throng of considerably drunk people and Elia had disappeared into the crowd.

Ashara wandered around until she came to a living room behind the stairs. The lights weren’t on, so she flicked on a lamp. She had grabbed a Sprite from an icebox and unscrewed the top, taking a long sip until the bubbles burned her throat. The room had windows looking out at the backyard, which was beautiful. There was a large pool and a large expanse of grass before a fence and trees. Ashara wanted to go out and sit on the patio, but she wasn’t sure she was allowed.

She sensed someone walking into the room and looked up, expecting to see Elia or Lyanna or Arthur, but instead it was Robert, Lyanna’s ex and Ned’s good friend. He staggered towards her with a gait that spoke loud and clear his affliction. Ashara scooted back against the pillows of the couch.

“Hey, Ashy,” he slurred, stumbling towards her. She wrinkled her nose. Only Elia, Lyanna and Arthur called her Ashy. Ash was acceptable, but not Ashy.

“H-Hi, Robert,” she said softly, trying to make herself look small and unthreatening. Robert sat down heavily next to her and slung a big, meaty hand around her bantam shoulders. “Why don’t you have anything to drink?” he asked loudly.

“Um, I got a Sprite,” Ashara said, holding up the green plastic bottle. Robert laughed noisily. “Okay. I can go get you some beer or something if you’d like.”

“No, no, please, I’m fine,” Ashara said, apace, shimmying out of his arms. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh, you’re one of those girls,” Robert said, sounding blasé. “Why don’t you have a sip?” He held out a brown, long-necked bottle with a red white and blue label. Ashara shook her head quickly and stood up, backing away. “No, Robert, I’m fine.”

“Have a drink!” Robert demanded, standing up and advancing on her. She backed up swiftly and the back of her knees collided with the chair in the corner, and she fell back as Robert loomed over her.

“I said, have a drink,” he growled, shoving the bottle into her face. The stench of the spirits made Ashara gag and recoil. The slightly damp rim of the glass dug into her cheek, and she nearly disgorged, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

“Robert, hey, cut it out.”

The bottle was removed from Ashara’s cheek and she looked up to see Ned Stark standing in the doorway, looking at the scene with disquiet. Robert moved his hand abruptly and some of the spirits spilled all over Ashara’s skirt and legs. She nearly retched and felt herself go light-headed.

“Leave her alone, Robert,” said Ned, and to Ashara’s disconcert, Robert acquiesced, leaving the room but making sure to knock Ned’s shoulder hard with his.

Ned approached Ashara as she stood up, flicking the elixir off her hands and scrubbing it off her legs. She could feel her eyes bubble up with tears.

“You okay?” Ned asked softly as he put an arm around her. His arm wasn’t ribald like Robert’s. His hand was barely resting on her shoulder, giving her plenty of space to move. She sniffled and ran her arm across her nose, wiping up the snot. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, but it came out barely audible.

“Do you want me to take you home?” He asked faintly, and she nodded, leaning into his warm side. They were nearly the same height, she noticed. His handsome green-gray eyes studied her with concern. Her throat closed as she nodded. “Yes, please,” she said hoarsely.

He wiped the booze from her cheek and led her through the party, politely waving away the people who tried to inquire what was going on. Once they were out on the driveway, Ashara hastily texted Elia that she had left early.

Ned led her down the street to his small gray Sedan and she plopped down in the passenger seat. The car was clean, unlike Elia’s Jeep, which had snacks and empty pop cans strewn around the backseat. But his was clean, with a little mint-scented pine tree hanging from his rear view mirror. The only thing in the backseat was a plain leather messenger bag.

He started the car and the radio turned on, just reticent country music. They drove in silence for a while, before Ashara realized he knew the way to her apartment. She even had to give Elia the address most of the time.

“How do you remember my apartment address?” She asked gingerly. The silence had hung over them for so long the volume of the sentencestartled her.

In the dark, Ashara could almost swear Ned was blushing. “I remember it from the time you had your birthday party,” he said sheepishly. “I’m good with addresses.”

“So you are,” Ashara murmured, looking out the window as he pulled into her driveway. She unbuckled her seatbelt and slid out of the car, lingering for a few moments longer than she probably should.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For getting me out of there.”

“If you don’t like parties, why come?” Ned said, leaning over the console so he could look at her. Ashara smiled sadly. “Elia makes me go, most of the time.”

Ned nodded understandingly. “Yeah. I get that too. Brandon and Lyanna drag me to parties too. I’m fine with just one — it’s chasing parties I don’t like.”

Ashara nodded. She dug the soft flesh of her fingers into the side of the car door. “Thanks again,” she said, shutting the door. It slammed a little bit more than she would have liked. She hurried up the driveway and pulled open the heavy metal door, and it closed loudly behind her. She ascended the metal flight of stairs into her tiny apartment and changed into her pajamas, before scrolling through her Instagram feed. It was mostly justpictures from the parties. She was in none of them, per usual, but someone had posted a picture and tagged her in it. Befuddled, she clicked on the notification. Ned had posted it. It was just a video of him driving, the camera pointed at the old-style radio screen that read the station title. The video was a minute long, as long as a video on Instagram could be, but Ashara listened to every second of it. And then again. And again.

It was just of a song playing on the radio. One phrase was repeated, so Ashara guessed that was the title: Chasing parties. She smiled a little. There was no caption — just her tagged username. It didn’t have the amount of likes the others got — just three measly likes. She tapped the video twice. And saved it to her collections.

Other people might not get it, but she did. Next time Elia invited her to a party, she’d decline. She’d be too busy hanging out with Ned.


	11. when I was your man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon hates the fact that he was a total jerk to the most perfect girl in the grade.

Rickon felt like he had lost half of his body. He felt like he had lost a conjoined twin. The party’s music pounded around him, and rainbow lights swerved around him like a drunk, but he just sat in the corner and watched the dance floor glumly. The school cafeteria was freezing, but he didn’t bother to reach over and grab his coat. He stared out at the rest of the moving bodies, twirling and screaming and laughing together.

Shireen stuck out like a sore thumb. She looked so beautiful in her shimmery pink ball gown and little silver tiara. She hadn’t won Homecoming queen (Sansa had already claimed the title) and wasn’t even on the court, but she should’ve been. She looked like a princess. A beautiful, sad princess.

She had her hands around Sebastian’s neck. She was smiling at him. He was smiling back. They looked so goofy, so cliché. Rickon found himself wondering if Shireen had ever looked at him like that. Was there ever a time she really had loved him, like she loved Sebastian?

Shireen had broken up with him. That was that. He had asked her to homecoming at lunch one day, just a casual conversation, and she had denied him. And then broke up with him. How could she do that?

But looking at her, surrounded by rainbow lights and with that beautiful smile, he knew.

He never bought her flowers. He never held her hand. He should’ve spent more time with her. She had loved dancing so much, but Rickon never took her to any parties. He was always wrapped up with himself.

Their first date itself had been disastrous. They had gone to see a movie, a drive-in one, and it turned out that the temperature dropped below freezing. Shireen had caught the flu and her mom blamed it on Rickon. Their next dates weren’t much better.

He had treated her like a trophy. All his siblings already had boyfriends and girlfriends or was married — Jon was engaged to Ygritte, Robb was married to Sebastian’s sister, Corlisse Frey, Sansa was dating Theon Greyjoy, Arya was dating Gendry Baratheon, and Bran was dating Jojen Reed. All of them had been dating someone in freshman year. But freshman year had come and went for Rickon, and no one had proposed their undying love for him. When Shireen entered his circle of primarily male friends, he was getting desperate. He had never really loved her, and she had never really loved him. But there was still a deep longing for her.

Flowers. She loved flowers. She had a whole stack of polaroids in her room of cool flowers she had photographed. Robb got Corlisse flowers. So did Theon, and Gendry and Jojen. Rickon never gave Shireen anything except a measly charm for her charm bracelet for her birthday.

He knew her so well and didn’t at the same time. She was better friends with Tommen, Sebastian, Edric, Devan and Ned than him. Her boyfriend. Rickon hadn’t even noticed when her eye started to wander. He, of course, had been too caught up with himself.

Sebastian was nice. Four foot eleven, with curly black hair and eyes like sapphires, it was easy to see why Shireen liked him. She herself was five foot six, a giant compared to Sebastian and Rickon. A awkward, skinny giant who had plump cheeks and eyes the color of chocolate.

He was the worst boyfriend in the history of ever. He ignored Shireen’s calls and texts, didn’t sit with her at lunch, nothing. He never once talked to her outside of dates or asking her on dates. He figured she had every right to hate him and want him to go away.

She looked so happy dancing with Sebastian. Both of them were smiling, their eyes sparked with happiness. Rickon had never looked at anyone like that. He wanted to. Maybe not Shireen, but someone.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Rickon turned slowly to see Tommen standing behind him. His blonde hair was combed back for once and he wore a tux with a yellow bow tie that was all too big for him. The tux was most likely and hand-me-down from Joffrey. The blonde’s blue eyes were concerned as he looked down at Rickon from his towering height.

“You still upset about Shireen?” He asked, raising his voice a little over the music. Rickon just turned away, choosing not to look at his friend. Tommen sat down next to him at the table. He was silent for a few moments.

“I know you’re upset,” Tommen said slowly. “But...I’m going to be blunt. You weren’t that good to her. A girl like Rini needs a lot, and I mean a lot, of love. She doesn’t get that much at home.”

“I wasn’t good to her, at all,” Rickon lamented. “I was the worst. Worst ever. I never did anything but flaunt her around so I could fit in.”

Tommen was quiet. They stayed quiet until the last song ended, and everyone cheered as they made their way towards the door.

Rickon stood suddenly, feeling a little dizzy as the blood rushed to his head, but walked towards where Shireen was rummaging through her small purse, looking for her phone or something. Sebastian had gone off to speak to Edric, Devan and Ned. Rickon only had so much time.

He grabbed Shireen’s upper arm and she squeaked in surprise, turning to look at him. The lights had been turned back on, and so now he could see the grayscale coating the left side of her face. Her eyes lost a little bit of their luster as she looked down at him.

“Shireen,” Rickon forced out, annoyed at how weak he sounded. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never got you flowers, or took you to parties or anything. I’m so sorry.”

Shireen’s mouth opened just a little bit. “Rickon, you don’t have to-“ she tried, but Rickon interrupted her.

“I hope he buys your flowers,” he said, looking up into those Hershey chocolate bar eyes. “And holds your hand. And gives you all his hours, when he has the chance.” His throat tightened. “And takes you to every party, because I remember how much you loved to dance.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sebastian approaching, so he released a Shireen’s arm and backed away. “All the things I should’ve done when I was your man.”

He walked out of the cafeteria, leaving Shireen and Sebastian behind. He didn’t even bother finding Tommen, Edric, Devan and Ned to say goodbye. He just got into his car, gripped the steering wheel, and screamed as loud as he could in frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM A SLUT FOR PROBLEMATIC RICKON


	12. Hope and Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BOYS IN SKIRTS BOYS IN SKIRTS BOYS IN SKIRTS BOYS IN

Rhoswen staggered back, reeling from the burst of energy Mistress 9 blasted at them. She blinked wearily, her legs feeling like they would give out.

_It didn’t do anything?!_

Mistress 9 still stood tall across the battlefield, her ugly, monstrous shape seething underneath the dark-purple skin. The ragged sound of her breathing made Rhoswen shudder.

Sansa staggered to her feet beside Rhoswen. Rhoswen glanced at her mother. Sansa still stood tall, like she always did in battle, but there was a new slump to her shoulders that troubled Rhoswen. Her hair was falling out of its braid.

“Mama-“ Rhoswen began, but was cut off by a cry from Tommen.

“There’s a ripple in space!” He practically shrieked. Rhoswen looked over to see him clutching the Garnet Rod like a lifeline. “Master Pharaoh 90 is coming!”

Just after the words left his mouth, a huge, bulging purple shape slid through the cloud above. It was a glowing purple blob, but Mistress 9 looked up at it and gave a scream of delight. She jumped into the sky, and straight into the blob.

There was a boom of thunder as the blob suddenly shrunk (not by much) into a more human-like form. It was still massive, and it hurt to look at. It seemed like an abstract, larger form of Mistress 9.

“I am free!” The strange creature roared. “I will turn this world into a new mother planet of of Tau System.”

“You will not harm the Earth!” Margaery shouted from nearby. Rhoswen glanced over. She looked beautiful as ever, even though she had a bruise on her cheek and her skirt was ripped, in her Sailor Venus form. “Attack him! All at once!”

Arya reacted first. “Mars Flame Sniper!” She shouted, and a flaming bow and arrow appeared in her hands. Yara was just a moment behind her, calling down Supreme Thunder on Pharaoh 90.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!” Shireen called, and a lyre appeared in her hands.

“Crescent Boomerang!” Margaery called, and a shining gold boomerang sparkled to life in her hands.

All of the Guardians attacked at once, but Pharaoh 90 didn’t even seem to react. In fact, he seemed to swell under the pressure of the attacks.

Pharaoh 90 cackled. “You cannot hurt me, only make me stronger,” he rumbled. He took a massive leap into the sky, but was stopped by the force field that still surrounded the rubble of the school. Pharaoh 90 considered it for a moment, before jumping into it again, and the whole thing broke into a million pieces.

Theon, Robb, and Tommen all screamed and fell to their knees, clutching their heads as the rubble from the forcefield rained down around them. Rhoswen yanked a stunned Sansa out of the way of a falling piece. She looked up to see a massive wormhole appear in the sky, purple and menacing.

“The Tau System,” Pharaoh 90 seethed. “My mother planet. I will rule this planet and make it a second mother planet, too!”

The dark clouds surrounding the battlefield began to fade away, revealing the ominous full moon. Rhoswen gasped; she could instantly feel her strength leaving her. She fell to her knees, but a strong set of hands caught her before she could. Ramsay cradled her like a baby, and pressed her cheek to the front of his suit.

Rhoswen watched in terror as the rest of the Inner Senshi fell. Sailor Shireen Mercury slid down to her knees and slumped over sideways, her face turned away from Rhoswen. Sailor Arya Mars stumbled down onto one knee. Sailor Yara Jupiter staggered back into a pile of rocks, and Sailor Margaery Venus fell backwards, her head cradled by a few fallen bricks.

Rhoswen watched Sailor Sansa Moon. She stood forlornly amongst the rubble, looking small and lost. Rhoswen could tell her mother was thinking. Her hair flowed majestically in the moonlight, and her skin glowed like porcelain. She surveyed the rubble for a long time, before she dipped her head, and then threw her face back towards the moon.

“Moon Chalice!” She yelled, stretching her hands out. “Come into my grasp!”

The air around her hands shimmered with ethereal light, until the Moon Chalice appeared in between her fingers. Sansa’s face was set and determined. “Lend me your power! Moon Chalice of lore, filled with the last powers of the nine Sailor Guardians!”

Rhoswen heard Ramsay mutter, “Sansa, what are you doing?”

Sansa turned to look at Ramsay and Rhoswen, and she smiled, winking playfully at them.

“SANSA!” Ramsay shouted.

Sansa plunged, down, down, down, towards Pharaoh 90. The Moon Chalice still glimmered in her hands.

“Stop it! Sansa!” Ramsay screamed. His voice made Rhoswen’s ears ring.

Sansa plunged deep into the heart of the beast. Rhoswen shrieked, her hands flying to her mouth. There was a ripple in the surface of Pharaoh 90’s chest, and then nothing.

There was awful silence. Rhoswen could distantly hear Arya yelling “Where did she go? Where did she go?” and the constant rumble of Pharaoh 90. But other than that, the world was dead silent.

Rhoswen felt Ramsay tremble beside her.

Rhoswen threw back her head and screamed for her mother.

Once all the breath had left her throat, she fell forward, landing on her hands. Her little shoulders shook with sobs. She heard Sailor Robb Uranus land somewhere nearby, and the telltale clatter of the Space Sword falling to the ground.

There was a minute of dead silence again, until Rhoswen felt a warm light bathe the bare skin of her arms. She glanced behind her, her vision blurred by tears.

Robb had landed behind them, and the Space Sword which he had dropped was glowing a faint yellow. He hesitantly picked it up, holding it gingerly, as if afraid it might explode.

“The talismans,” he whispered. Rhoswen glanced across the battlefield to Sailor Theon Neptune and Sailor Tommen Pluto. Theon’s Aqua Mirror was glowing blue, and Tommen’s Garnet Rod was glowing hot pink.

Robb stood up straighter and held the Space Sword up toward the sky, which made it glow an even brighter yellow. Theon and Tommen did the same, and their talismans glowed brighter as well. Beams of light suddenly shot from them and up toward the giant wormhole. Rhoswen glanced down and gasped.

Pharaoh 90’s chest was glowing, and he was twitching. “What’s this?” He rumbled. “What’s this glowing inside me?”

Almost as soon as the echo of his words faded, an even larger beam of violet light erupted from his chest, and shot straight through the wormhole. A rush of wind buffeted both Rhoswen and Ramsay as the beam dimmed and faded away.

Pharaoh 90 began to shake and shudder as a gleaming purple orb rose from his chest. It rose until the light from it gently faded away. In its place was a boy.

“It can’t be-“ Robb gasped from behind Rhoswen. Her mouth dropped open.

It certainly looked like Rickon. The floating boy had the same curly brown hair, thick brown freckles, and short stature, but he looked different. His fuzzy black sweater and leggings had been traded for a normal Sailor Guardian’s outfit — a white shirt, dark purple skirt, knee-high purple boots, and a large purple bow at his chest. The glimmer of a circlet was at his brow. In his hand, he carried a gleaming silver glaive, as wickedly sharp as a crescent moon.

The wind lightly buffeted Rickon’s hair as he ascended a bit further. “I am an emissary from the abyss of death,” He said loudly. There was an unrecognizable shadow over his eyes. “Protected by Saturn, the Planet of Ruin, and Guardian of Silence. I am Sailor Rickon Saturn.”

He smiled unexpectedly. “It seems I am always an uninvited guest.”

Suddenly plunging down, Rickon stabbed Pharaoh 90’s chest with the butt of his glaive. The monster cried out and struggled, but couldn’t move.

“And now that I am awakened,” Rickon said, his clear voice carrying around the rubble. He rose away from Pharaoh 90, back up towards the sky. “I must swing down this Silence Glaive.”

“No!” Theon yelled. “Sailor Saturn!”

“Swinging down the Glaive means total annihilation!” Tommen pleaded.

Rickon rose and rose, until he was about level with Ramsay and Rhoswen. He twirled the Glaive to his left side and hoisted it high.

“No!” The same word, shouted in different octaves from several different Guardians. Rhoswen watched Rickon with big eyes. Will there be no future for us?

Rickon lifted the Glaive. “Death Ribbon Revolution!” His clear, high voice carried all the way across the battlefield. The Glaive exploded into harsh purple light, and Pharaoh 90 cried out. He began to be torn apart, different pieces of swirling purple skin being peeled off and sent flying into the wormhole.

The Sailor Guardians began to cry out.

Rhoswen watched as Rickon gracefully, in one, long move, swiped the Glaive down and through the air.

“Sansa!” Rhoswen screamed as her vision turned purple.

 

When Rhoswen could see again, Pharaoh 90 was screaming, Rickon looked troubled, and the whole world was glowing with a rainbow light.

Pharaoh 90 suddenly exploded, leaving a rainbow star in his wake. It hovered in the air for a while, before the glare from the light cleared, and Rhoswen could see.

Sansa was hovering inside, looking like she was sleeping peacefully. But her eyes opened, and as soon as they did, she seemed to explode in a flash of rainbow. Rhoswen watched as her teammates’s costumes changed — instead of jewels in the middle of their bows, hearts appeared, and their sleeves turned transparent. A second bow appeared at the back of their skirts.

Rhoswen watched as Sansa gingerly landed on top of a rocky spire. She knelt, and looked up at the sky.

Pharaoh 90 suddenly swelled bigger. He hadn’t really exploded when Sansa returned, only flattened out, only to come back together and reform. He grew to the size of the skyscraper Rhoswen stood on, groping for the wormhole.

“At least let me return to my mother solar system,” he begged. “A graveyard of gravity and silence!”

“It’s so beautiful,” Rhoswen heard Rickon murmur. “The moment of agony before destruction.” He seemed to regain reality, as he shook his head and leaped towards Pharaoh 90. Rhoswen could see him glowing purple inside the beast’s chest.

“The only way out of this place is death!” He shouted. “I, Sailor Rickon Saturn, will lead you to the world of silence and void!”

“At this rate, Rickon will be sucked into another dimension along with Pharaoh 90,” Tommen lamented. Yara gasped.

“Sailor Rickon Saturn,” Rhoswen whispered. “Rickon.”

Rickon looked over his shoulder and met Rhoswen’s gaze. “No need to feel despair, little Guardian,” he said, his face taking on an uncharacteristic softness. “Hope and rebirth always begin with the end.” He smiled, and held out his hand towards Sansa. “And you’re the one who brings them.” He smiled faintly again. “Super Sailor Sansa Moon.”

Sansa blinked. “Sailor Rickon...”

“Because you released your full power, Sansa,” Rickon continued. “I’ll be able to save this planet.”

“Save this planet?” Sansa echoed.

“I’m the guardian who vanquishes destruction and death to enable rebirth,” Rickon said gently. He still held the Silence Glaive high. “The sacred power of this chosen land, on which Silver Millenium will eventually be built, is your ally.”

Sansa looked like she was going to cry. “Rickon...”

Rickon gave her one last half-smile, before twisting his glaive and swiveling his gaze to find Tommen. “Sailor Tommen Pluto! Close this path that ought not exist to the alien world forever!”

“Sailor Rickon!” Tommen shrieked.

“Hurry!” Rickon shouted back.

Tommen looked like he was going to refuse, but he grit his teeth and stabbed the Garnet Rod downward. He knelt in front of it. “Guardian deity of space and time, our father Kronos,” he murmured, and the Garnet Rod began to glow with pink light. “Grant me power! Shut this taboo door that was wrenched open!” Tears fell down his face.

“Dark Dome Close!”

A large wind exploded around Tommen, ruffling Rhoswen’s skirts and Ramsay’s cape. A huge set of doors suddenly appeared near the wormhole, and Pharaoh 90 began to scream as he was sucked into it, along with the wormhole. Rickon followed him inside, still aloof and holding the Glaive out in front of him.

“Sailor Rickon!” Rhoswen screamed.

Rickon glanced back at Rhoswen, blinked, and smiled.

The last of Pharaoh 90 swirled into the doors, and they slammed shut forever.

Atop the stone spire, Sansa looked up at the sky. It was still dark and purple. Extending her hand, light suddenly surrounded her, and then exploded. When it faded, she was no longer in her Sailor Scout uniform. Instead, she was in a flowing white dress and a silver crown.

Robb gasped. “That’s...”

“Neo Queen Sansa,” Margaery finished in awe.

A pink, bejweled scepter appeared in Sansa’s outstretched hand. Holding it high, rainbow light exploded form it in waves. Wherever the light touched, the buildings were restored. The clouds cleared, revealing a cheerful, bright blue sky and shining sun.

A sudden beam of light shot down from the sky and onto a nearby stone spire. When it faded, the sound of an infant’s cries filled the air.

“A baby?” Rhoswen piped up.

Theon, Robb, and Tommen all jumped down onto the spire at once,. Rhoswen leaned over to look. It was a baby, with curly brown hair and freckles. In fact, it looked just like —

“Rickon?” Theon murmured.

“Is he reincarnated already?” Robb asked.

Theon leaned forward and gently picked up Baby Rickon. He made a cute little baby noise and giggled. Theon smiled, and looked up at Robb.

“If he’s all alone, let’s raise him,” he said. Robb smiled. “I don’t see why not.”

Rhoswen looked back at Sansa. Her mother was still in her Neo Queen Sansa form, glowing and angelic. She turned to look at Rhoswen, and smiled. Rhoswen blinked, and then smiled back.

_It’s like Rickon said — hope and birth begin with the end._

 


	13. dreadfort sleepover squad pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dreadfort squad commence!!!!
> 
> part 1

Sansa looked up as the door opened. Theon scuttled in with a tray of food, with Shireen following close behind with a pitcher. Theon tentatively placed the tray down on the nearby table, and Shireen slowly refilled her cup.

“How many servants does it take to bring me food?” Sansa muttered. She heard Shireen pause, obviously hurt by Sansa’s comment that was directed more towards Theon. Theon looked up but didn’t comment.

As Theon turned to leave, Sansa stood. “Theon, look at me.” She growled. She was still furious about him telling Ramsay about her escape plan, and the death of her maid.

Theon’s gaze darted to the floor. “Not Theon, Reek,” he mumbled. “Ramsay took away Theon Greyjoy.”

“Fine, then.” Sansa snapped. “Reek. Why did you tell Ramsay about my plan?”

“I wanted to help you,” he said miserably. “If you tried to go, you would have died. Theon Greyjoy tried to run. Theon is gone.”

“Theon is not gone,” Sansa snarled. “You are still Theon Greyjoy. You’re still the one who burnt my home to the ground, killed my brothers, and betrayed my elder brother. A change in your name can’t change that.”

Shireen lightly set down the pitcher, obviously trying to draw attention to herself and away from Theon, but Sansa kept her eyes trained on Theon.

Theon shook his head. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know it would end up like this. When I burnt those boys-“

“They weren’t just those boys,” Sansa snapped, reaching forward and grabbing Theon’s collar and pulling him nearer. “They were Bran and Rickon. They were your brothers.”

“They weren’t, they were only-“ Theon suddenly froze, and his eyes widened, as if he’d been shot.

“They were what?” Sansa growled, shaking him a little. She felt a hand on her arm but shook Shireen’s soft touch away.

Theon shook his head again. “I-I can’t.”

“Tell me.” Sansa demanded.

“I-I can’t, not unless the master tells-“

“Tell me they weren’t Bran and Rickon!” Sansa shouted.

“They weren’t Bran and Rickon!” Theon yelled, his clear seaglass eyes darting up to meet Sansa’s. “We...We couldn’t find them.”

Sansa stared at Theon. He looked so defeated, so humiliated. Shireen gently reached forward and picked up his hand, pity shimmering in her dark brown eyes.

“They were little farm boys,” Theon mumbled. “I killed them and burned them so no one would know.”

Sansa gently let go of his shirt. Her breathing was shaking. Pictures of her younger brothers were zooming in and out of her mind. They were alive. Alive, alive, alive, her heart sang.

“Do you know where they went?” She whispered, just as she heard the herald at the gates holler for them to open.

Sansa, Theon, and Shireen all shared an equally terrified look, before all three of them bolted out of the door. Ramsay wasn't supposed to be home until sundown; the sun had barely come up.

When they got to the courtyard, Ramsay was there, along with his entourage. Lord Umber was with him, a huge, hulk of man and beard. Two hooded figures stood shivering behind them.

Ramsay saw Sansa at the balcony and smiled. “Lady Sansa! Please, come here. I have a gift for you. Look what Lord Umber has found!”

Sansa glanced at Theon and Shireen, who averted their eyes quickly. Sansa swallowed thickly and slowly made her way down the stairs. The telltale squeaking of planks told her Theon and Shireen were following close behind.

She approached Ramsay and he smiled more. He seemed to be in a very good mood; something spectacular must have happened.

“Look what Lord Umber has brought us,” Ramsay said cheekily, and he grabbed the hood on the shorter of the two people’s heads and ripped it off.

Brown ringlets fell onto a pale face and thick freckles. Stormy blue eyes stretched wide, pupils dilating into spots. Chapped, pink-and-cherry lips parted slightly as the boy’s breath billowed out into the crisp air. The highborn-telling cheekbones and nose told Sansa more than she could ever put into words.

“Rickon,” she breathed, the words barely audible in the silent courtyard. Rickon’s already rapid breathing sped up as his eyes got impossibly wider and he leaped for her, arms stretched wide and eyebrows slanting. Sansa reached out to catch him, but Ramsay was faster. He cracked a hand against Rickon’s freckled cheek and the boy fell, yelping.

Sansa sucked in a painful breath and stared at Ramsay. He watched Rickon with an expression of pure hatred. Rickon is Father’s last trueborn son, since no one has seen Bran, Sansa thought. Rickon is the true Warden of the North, and heir to Winterfell.

Ramsay wrenched Rickon back into standing position. An ugly blue-and-purple bruise was already forming on Rickon’s unblemished skin. His Tully-blue eyes were glossy with tears.

“Take Lord Stark to his room,” Ramsay said evenly. “Get rid of the wildling. I don’t need her.” He swerved his gaze to look at Sansa. “Reek, Grey, please take Lady Bolton back to her room as well.”

Theon and Shireen had to drag Sansa away from the courtyard. She was rooted to the ground, frozen in shock. Her little brother was alive. Rickon could save them. He could save Sansa. And Theon, and Shireen, and Jon, Arya and Bran, wherever they were.

She just had to escape first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is based on an AU I have, I call it the Dreadfort Sleepover Squad (DSS) AU!! Basically it’s a huge “what if” storyline, where Shireen wasn’t sacrificed and instead captured at Stannis’s battle with Ramsay (which also comes much earlier in my au), and Rickon comes to Dreadfort much much earlier. and in some versions when I’m in a more forgiving mood Ramsay is part of this squad as well!!! 💖💘💝

**Author's Note:**

> it’s midnight what am I doing 
> 
> well this could be a part 1, as I copy/pasted this from a roleplay lmao. so there might be a part 2, and if this gets longer, maybe a full work on it. Idk.


End file.
